"When I come to visit the deathbed of the broken,
They claim to see a merciful angel wielding the sword of God.
Or a demon who vowed to heave their souls to hell, just as promised.
I decorate the sockets of dead men with quiet flowers that still manage to bloom,
even in the darkest chambers."
Death holds his scythe above his head,
Ready to strike,
Not like a snake nor a vicious dog.
To swing like an instrument,
Careful and graceful with hands frequently misunderstood as being cold and cruel.
"We do not choose our names, they are chosen as our title-as our lifetime career bestowed upon us from the moment we could see.
But it is often seen as a burden they cannot accept, no more."
The world can't hear it,
the way Death sings for the betterment of the living.
Singing lullabies to the dying just to make it swift.
"So enlighten me, if you heed,
Does the sun speak to the moon when it is in need of company?
One kiss of its lethal heat and the moon disperses into oblivion.
Is that such a fair statement to behold, as we all weep for such unfairness that fate has bestowed upon us?
Does God wait within the clouds that stings the gloomy void with such an aroma that savors like phenomena?
Why wait, why serve when you can give yourself a purpose if life is not what you asked for."
The darkness is slaughtered like beasts,
forced to swallow its pride and except to cry in the rain.
All just to not be heard.
The universe weeps its milk onto the murky fields of the helpless blossoms,
A fire built around it just to protect its purity.
But when exposed, virtue is plucked from their hands.
Subtle and silent.
"Just like Ol' Death."
YOU ARE READING
Poems
Poetry"The universe kissed the stars, who birthed a galaxy of new beginnings." The only way to express beautiful and cynical thoughts is through the delightful invention of simple, and yet complex, poetry. My poems never end, have no defined theme and st...
